The room smelled like disinfectant and old air.
Cedric sat alone at the metal table, his wrists resting where the cuffs had been minutes earlier. The imprint of the steel still burned into his skin—not painfully, but insistently, like a reminder that freedom had already stepped out of reach.
The door opened.
Two officers entered this time. One older, face unreadable. The other younger, eyes sharp, pen already moving.
"State your name for the record."
"Cedric Duncan."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
The pen scratched.
"You understand why you're here."
Cedric nodded. "I understand what I'm accused of."
The younger officer leaned forward. "Then tell us your version."
Cedric inhaled slowly. "I didn't touch Naomi. I didn't go into her room. I didn't threaten her. Nothing happened."
The older officer watched him closely. "You're saying she lied."
"I'm saying she was made to," Cedric replied before he could stop himself.
The room went still.
"Explain that," the younger officer said.
Cedric hesitated. He could still hear Monica's voice. Say it.
He swallowed.
"There's tension in that house," he said carefully. "I don't belong there. I never did. Someone wanted me gone."
"Who?"
Cedric opened his mouth—then closed it.
If he said Monica's name, it would sound like bitterness. If he said Ella's, it would sound like deflection. If he said nothing, it would sound like guilt.
Silence won.
The younger officer exchanged a glance with the older one.
"Victims rarely lie," he said. "Especially not in front of their parents."
Cedric felt something crack inside his chest.
Across town, Amanda sat in a lawyer's office with her hands folded tightly in her lap.
The man across from her spoke calmly, professionally—but his words landed like stones.
"There's already a formal statement," he said. "And witnesses."
"Witnesses?" Amanda repeated. "To what?"
"To behavior," the lawyer replied. "To distress. To aftermath."
Amanda closed her eyes.
"My son is quiet," she said. "He avoids conflict. He avoids attention. He would rather disappear than hurt someone."
The lawyer nodded. "That helps with character. But character doesn't erase accusation."
Amanda's voice trembled for the first time. "So what do we do?"
"We prepare," he said. "And we brace."
Back at the house, Monica sat in her bedroom, staring at her reflection.
Her hands were shaking now.
Ella hovered near the door.
"Is it done?" Ella asked.
Monica turned slowly. "What?"
"Cedric," Ella said. "Is he… gone?"
Monica exhaled. "He will be."
Ella shifted uncomfortably. "Naomi keeps crying."
"She should," Monica snapped. "That's what makes it believable."
Ella's eyes flickered. "And if this goes too far?"
Monica stood abruptly.
"Too far?" she repeated. "Do you know what would have happened if that boy stayed? Do you know what our daughters would have lost?"
Ella said nothing.
"That child was never meant to be here," Monica continued, her voice lowering. "I did what I had to do."
Down the hallway, the third daughter listened.
And remembered every word.
Cedric was returned to the holding cell just before nightfall.
The walls were close. The bench was cold. The silence was loud.
When the door opened again, he expected another officer.
Instead, it was his father.
Duncan stood at the threshold, older than he had ever looked.
They stared at each other.
"I told them you wouldn't do something like this," Duncan said quietly.
Cedric's heart leapt. "You did?"
"But I also told them I wasn't there," Duncan added. "And that I can't explain what I didn't see."
The hope drained.
"Dad," Cedric said, standing. "You know me."
Duncan's jaw tightened. "I know my daughters too."
The words fell between them like a blade.
Duncan turned away.
That was the moment Cedric understood.
This wasn't about truth.
It was about survival.
Later that night, Naomi sat on her bed, staring at her hands.
She could still hear Cedric's voice.
I didn't do it, Mama.
Her chest tightened.
Ella sat beside her. "You did what you had to."
Naomi shook her head. "I don't feel safe."
Ella didn't answer.
In another room, Monica lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since the scream, fear crept in—not of discovery, but of permanence.
Some lies don't end.
They sentence.
By morning, the charge was filed.
And Cedric Duncan became an inmate number.
Not because he was guilty.
But because blood had lied—and the world had listened.